Fallout 19

The USS Taras Bulba trembled as another salvo of torpedoes launched from the tubes. On the bridge, Admiral Gref stood by his command chair, watching the screen. He was short and stocky even by Tellarite standards, and the expression on his grey-bearded face was sour.

"KDF forces now in retreat," his flag captain announced. "We anticipate they will regroup around Target November."

"So detach a cruiser element and stop them," Gref ordered, almost absently. His black eyes were still fixed on the screen. The orbital fortress was still firing, but its screens were down, its disruptor banks visibly failing as its power levels dropped. There was a flare of light, and a shower of sparks burst from its flank as the dreadnought Warspite fired another phaser lance.

"Signal from USS Virtue, sir," an aide reported. Gref turned his head.

"Let's have it, then," he said. "On screen."

The image of the slowly disintegrating fortress vanished, to be replaced with the haggard face of Ronnie Grau. Behind her, Gref could see damage control parties moving amid the wreckage of her bridge.

"Vice Admiral Grau," Gref said. "Thanks for that assist. How bad are things?"

"We're still operational," Ronnie replied. "Listen -"

Gref turned to another aide, who shook her head. "No, you're not," he said, looking back at Ronnie. "Get your ship out of the combat zone and get her fixed."

"Listen," Ronnie said, urgently. "Something I thought of. Back behind all of this, there is still someone who wants total war. That hit on the Yll-Toricans? Could have been just hotheads, could have been something else - like, deliberate provocation."

"To bring us here?" Gref could quirk an eyebrow as sceptically as any Vulcan.

"Right. And provoke a response, a maximum response. Sir, try not to give them what they want. I think it's important."

"All right," Gref said. "You helped me, I owe you a hearing, I've heard you. Now get that wreck out of here and get it patched up. Gref out."

Ronnie's face blanked out, to be replaced by the view of the burning Klingon fortress. Gref stroked his chin, thoughtfully.

"Comms," he said, after a little while, "open a channel to the Klingons."

It took a short while, and the image, when it appeared on the viewscreen, was shaky, blurred, and shot through with interference. It showed a tall, dark-haired Klingon with a handsome, hawkish face, wearing the robes of a Dahar Master over a spare athletic frame. The contrast with Gref could not have been more marked. "Starfleet," he said with hauteur. "I am General Klellor." Something burst into flames behind him, and his mouth twisted in a rueful smile. "Be brief. There are many calls on my attention."

"I'll be brief," said Gref. "You're beaten, General. I'll finish off that station of yours before you can get your power couplings back up, and you know it. Then where are you? I still have enough ships left to isolate your remaining orbital forces and destroy them in detail. Are you expecting a relief fleet? It won't get here soon enough."

He paced irritably from one side of the command dais to the other. "Not soon enough to help you, but it'll arrive before I can finish off all your ground forces and occupy the planet. But then I don't need the planet, or even want the planet. All I have to do is deny it to you. That's pretty easy, you showed us the way. It's a military target, isn't it? Not a colony world. No shadow of a cause for complaint if I hit it with relativistic strikes and turn it into a dustbowl. Not now. So that's my option. Finish the job, let you fight to the bitter end, pull out leaving nothing in this system but rubble. It works for me, it meets my objectives. That's my option. Do you -" he stared hard into the viewscreen "- have any better ideas?"

There was a short silence, broken only by the sounds of distant explosions behind Klellor. Finally, the Klingon spoke. "Overall command responsibility passed to me when Admiral Tyr'kung was lost," he said.

"Sure about that?" Gref demanded. "That he's lost? I don't want to waste time on a subordinate."

"The Admiral," said Klellor, "took personal command of his tactical cruiser when it went out to destroy your vessel. His authority has now passed to me." Klellor seemed to struggle with something, internally. "The Admiral was authorised by the High Council," he said, with visible effort, "to - to surrender the system, if, in his judgment, circumstances should make it necessary. That responsibility also passes to me." He looked down. "In my judgment, it is now necessary." He turned towards someone or something out of the viewer's field of vision. "Pass the word!" he shouted fiercely. "Surrender!"

Gref grunted. "Signal to fleet," he said. "The Klingons are surrendering. Fire only if fired upon."

Klellor raised haunted eyes to meet Gref's. "You fought well, Admiral. The victory is yours."

Gref's gaze flicked briefly to a nearby display, one that showed the table of organization for Sixth Fleet, damaged ships highlighted in yellow, red highlights for the ones wrecked or destroyed. "You fought well too," he said to the Klingon, as kindly as he could. "We meet on my ship in one hour to formalize the terms of surrender."

Klellor nodded. "It will be as the victor requires. Qapla', Admiral Gref. Aznetkur Station out."

The image of the station reappeared. Fires were still burning in the escaping air from its hull breaches, but its guns were silent.

"I'll be in my ready room," Gref muttered. "Dress uniform. I'll have to wear dress uniform. I hate dress uniform. You have the bridge," he told his flag captain.

"Sir." The captain hesitated a moment. "Sir... would you have... I mean, if he hadn't surrendered... would you have done it? Would you have ordered the relativistic strikes, had the planet destroyed?"

Gref shot him a sardonic look. "Never know now, will we?" And with that he stumped off the bridge.